


Barcelona

by Savageandwise



Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: 1963, Angst, Letter, M/M, Work of fiction, barcelona, not my take on reality
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-07
Updated: 2018-10-07
Packaged: 2019-07-27 09:22:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16216130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Savageandwise/pseuds/Savageandwise
Summary: Just a few weeks after Cynthia gives birth to their son, John goes on holiday with Brian in Spain. Meanwhile, Paul, George and Ringo are holidaying in Tenerife with Astrid and Klaus.  Struggling with the memories of a recent argument with Paul, John tries to write him a letter explaining how he feels.





	Barcelona

**Author's Note:**

> I'm really struggling with writing at the moment. I really want to work on unfinished chapters of works in progress but I'm just all drained because of work and generally feeling insecure about my writing.
> 
> This was a piece I started a long time ago that I decided to finish. I dunno. Anyway. Here it is. Such as it is.

He had already started and then discarded the letter several times, scratching out his furious missive on the hotel stationery. The paper was thick, cream coloured, the name of the hotel embossed in curving golden letters at the top of each sheet. John tossed his waded up attempts under the gilt desk and tried again and again.

_D̶e̶a̶r̶ ̶M̶a̶c̶c̶a̶,̶ ̶ ̶_

_Y̶o̶u̶’̶v̶e̶ ̶n̶o̶ ̶r̶i̶g̶h̶t̶ ̶t̶o̶ ̶t̶e̶l̶l̶ ̶m̶e̶ ̶w̶h̶a̶t̶ ̶I̶ ̶s̶h̶o̶u̶l̶d̶_  
_̶Y̶o̶u̶ ̶h̶a̶d̶ ̶n̶o̶ ̶r̶i̶g̶h̶t̶_  
_F̶u̶c̶k̶_

He lit another cigarette, inhaled violently and started again. There were several in the ashtray, half-smoked and still smouldering. It was downright wasteful when even last year he couldn't afford all the cigarettes he desired let alone Spanish wine and fine hotels. The window was open a crack, John could smell the faint salty perfume of the sea, the sweet musky scent of the jacaranda trees and night air. The night always smelled like nostalgia to John, no matter where he was. Caused that odd sweet ache in his chest he associated with loss and love.

_W̶h̶e̶n̶ ̶I̶ ̶t̶o̶l̶d̶ ̶y̶o̶u̶ ̶w̶h̶a̶t̶ ̶I̶ ̶t̶o̶l̶d̶ ̶y̶o̶u̶ ̶a̶b̶o̶u̶t̶ ̶t̶h̶e̶ ̶b̶a̶b̶y̶ ̶i̶t̶ ̶w̶a̶s̶ ̶i̶n̶ ̶s̶t̶r̶i̶c̶t̶e̶s̶t̶ ̶c̶o̶n̶f̶i̶d̶e̶n̶c̶e̶.̶ ̶T̶h̶a̶t̶ ̶y̶o̶u̶ ̶s̶h̶o̶u̶l̶d̶ ̶t̶u̶r̶n̶ ̶a̶r̶o̶u̶n̶d̶ ̶a̶n̶d̶ ̶t̶w̶i̶s̶t̶ ̶m̶y̶ ̶w̶o̶r̶d̶s̶ ̶i̶n̶ ̶m̶y̶ ̶m̶o̶u̶t̶h̶_

Brian was out cold. Presumably the excitement of the day had been too much for his sensitive constitution. The stench of blood and death in the the bull ring, the wine. He'd had far too much to drink trying to match John glass for glass. His slurred words had made him sound even posher.

“That's not what I like, John.”

He'd pulled up his trousers in a hurry, face burning in shame. Brian just wanted to hold him, that was all. John remembered that shameful squelching in his stomach. He'd just thought that's what poofs did. It's not like he'd had much experience in that area. Just the odd wank, a rare kiss or two. And whatever that thing with Paul was. John hadn't expected the odd tenderness of the action: Brian's arms around him as though he were made of spun sugar rather than flesh and bone. He'd known something would happen if he came to Spain with Brian. Of course he'd known. Fuck, he’d been banking on it, calculating bastard that he was.

_P̶a̶u̶l̶,̶ ̶_  
_̶I̶ ̶d̶o̶n̶'̶t̶ ̶g̶i̶v̶e̶ ̶a̶ ̶t̶o̶s̶s̶ ̶a̶b̶o̶u̶t̶ ̶y̶o̶u̶r̶ ̶j̶u̶d̶g̶e̶m̶e̶n̶t̶a̶l̶,̶ ̶p̶e̶t̶t̶y̶—̶_

He remembered sharing a bed with Paul in Paris. Side by side, not topping and tailing like children. There'd been no question. He'd slid right in, and they'd lain there, his leg pressed against Paul's. All those dreams they'd conjured up, all those visions of bright futures. Paul's hand had been at his side, his fingers brushing his hipbone absently. There'd been more intimacy in that brief touch than in Brian's tepid embrace. 

John turned his attention back to the paper in front of him. His pen was leaking and ink covered his fingers. He swore under his breath, wiped his hands on his handkerchief. He looked down at the scrap of cloth, it was one of Paul's, he could see his initials stitched in the corner in blue thread, presumably by Mary McCartney's steady hand.

_Dear Paul,_

 _It's four in the morning and too warm to sleep comfortably. I finally gave up and went out onto the balcony to have a smoke before I sat down to write you this letter. I can't stop thinking about your last words. You fucked everything up. It's probably a brilliant city. It's probably beautiful. Probably worth waiting for. But I wouldn't know, would I? All I can see is your stupid disapproving face. You said you didn't know me anymore. Didn't want to know me. I thought I could trust you. I̶f̶ ̶n̶o̶t̶ ̶y̶o̶u̶_

Who then, if not Paul? There was no one else. No one else he could be candid with. So he turned to Brian. With his soft voice, his passionate reassurances. 

“I'll always protect you, John. I'll always be there for you.”

And he ate it right up. John and Brian, mismatched puzzle pieces that refused to interlock, both of them desperate to feel cared for. At least Brian knew things, knew how the world worked. What did Paul know? How to charm a girl out of her knickers, how to carry a tune. How to finish John’s sentences for him before he knew what he wanted to say. How to turn him inside out with one look. 

_After what happened with Dot I thought you understood. I mean, I listened didn't I? I listened to you when you told me you didn't want all that. Tell me you wouldn't have done the same in my shoes. Tell me you wouldn't have married her and done the right thing even if it ate you up inside. Because I was there when you bought the fucking ring, Paul. And what about Paris? When you said you didn't want to leave things unspoken? Well, that's what the truth is like Paul. It's not all roses and rainbows._

Half asleep in the middle of the night he’d felt Paul reach for him, like he’d been dreaming and didn't know who he was. 

“It's me,” John had said. “What's wrong?”

Paul's hands had slid up his arms, fingers clenching the sleeves of his T-shirt. He'd let out a soft sigh, his breath sour with last night's red wine and cigarettes. 

“I should tell you—” Paul had started.

Paul's hands, flat against his chest, their legs sliding into each other. Puzzle pieces that fit. Paul's eyes had been so wide, his pale face illuminated by the dim street lamp outside the hotel window.

“What?” he'd asked. “Tell me.”

“I don't think we should keep things from each other,” Paul had said firmly.

John had known he was talking about Stuart. That he'd kept things about Stuart from him. Because he hadn't known how to put it into words. Because he hadn't known how to reassure him. It still hurt to think about Stuart. His delicate frame, sharp wit, sensitive soul. Six feet under the ground in Liverpool. Dead before his happy end.

_I don't want to keep things from you either. Remember that? So when I told you things about the baby and Cyn and the band. I thought you would understand. You said you didn't want to know me. I told you what I really wanted and you spat in my face. Some friend you are. Fair weather fuck. Fuck you. B̶r̶i̶a̶n̶ Brian begged me to join him. He begged me. He wanted to listen to what I had to say. He didn't blame me for something that was well out of my hands. I̶ ̶t̶h̶o̶u̶g̶h̶t̶ What was I supposed to think?_

“I don't want to keep things from you either,”

“Good. That's good,” Paul had said, his voice high and thin with relief. “So why did you ask me here? Why me and not Cyn?”

He’d pressed his face into the pillow to block out Paul's earnest expression, his wide eyes. It had smelled of lavender, that’s what John remembered. Lavender and pomade and sweat. 

“Why me, John?”

“Didn't anyone ever tell you not to look a gift horse in the fucking mouth?” John had groused.

“Open up. Say ‘ahhh’,” Paul had said, pulling on his arm, his hands had been ice cold. “Come on. At least look at me, will you?”

“Go to sleep, Paul,” John had said wearily. 

_I was only being honest. You asked me how I felt so I told you. I felt nothing when I saw my son. He was red and white and loud and hideous. Cyn was gazing at him full of admiration and all I could think was how he was going to take her away from me and how soon can I get out of here, get some alcohol down my throat? You asked me what was wrong with me. So many things. Which brings us back to Paris, doesn't it?_

He underlined ‘Paris’ with a great, lunging stab of the pen and then paused to scan the lines he'd written. It all sounded wrong, childish, sloppy. 

Paul's hands had been freezing on his cheeks  
John had recoiled in shock, struggled to sit, his knee connecting with Paul's hip. Paul had hissed out in pain. “Fucking hell, John!”

“Did I hurt—” he'd begun to say but he hadn't gotten much further. 

Paul's nose had been cold too. His lips had been warm, his mouth wet, his breath ragged. John hadn't had much time to think it through, he'd been too busy kissing Paul back.

_What's wrong with you? That's what I want to know. In Paris you weren't thinking of Cynthia. Not for a minute. Well, I hope you're happy in Tenerife. You called me selfish. I shouldn't have gone off with our queer manager when my wife just gave birth. Why don't you just admit what's really got you upset? Just say it. Do yourself a fucking favour. You're sick with jealousy. You're cracked. Like you were with Stu. Are you going to tell Astrid you wanted him dead? Tell her how relieved you were when he died. I didn't ask Stuart to come to Paris with me, Paul. I didn't ask Cynthia. Why do YOU think I didn't ask them?_

This was the truth: he wasn't angry, he was heartbroken. Ever since he'd met Paul there were moments they seemed to share a mind. There were moments they were one in a way John had never achieved with another human being before. Certainly not with poor Cynthia. He loved her with his whole heart but he didn't always know how to talk to her. John and Paul together were electric. And Paul had severed that bond with his cruel words.

 _I didn't think I'd have to come out and say it. N̶o̶t̶ ̶a̶f̶t̶e̶r̶ I thought you understood ̶a̶n̶d̶ ̶t̶h̶a̶t̶ ̶w̶a̶s̶ ̶w̶h̶y̶_  
_I thought you understood. ̶Y̶o̶u̶ ̶f̶u̶c̶k̶i̶n̶g̶ ̶k̶i̶s̶s̶e̶d̶ ̶m̶e̶ ̶Y̶o̶u̶ ̶k̶i̶s̶s̶e̶d̶ ̶m̶e̶.̶ ̶_  
_YOU kissed ME. Fuck you. What was that about?_

Paul had kissed him and it had been exactly what he'd imagined. His stomach still quivered, remembering it. The soft exhale, firm pressure of Paul's lips on his own, the tight knot of lust in his stomach pulling tighter and tighter, driving him out of his mind. He'd hoped it would be the start of something but after that Paul just acted like nothing had happened. And fuck if he was going to mention it first. What he'd wanted to do was pull down Paul's pants and put his mouth on his cock. Feel him hard with uncontainable excitement. The wrongness of it was what really got him going. He was wrong and Paul was wrong. And together they were right, right, right. He was always going to ask him about it. He was always going to demand an answer and now it was too late. John was married, with a kid and he was on holiday with their Jew manager who wouldn't even fuck him to take the edge off his curiosity. They had made it all right. Made it to a place where it was impossible to explain how he felt.

 _B̶e̶c̶a̶u̶s̶e̶ ̶I̶ ̶l̶i̶k̶e̶d̶ ̶i̶t̶.̶ ̶O̶k̶a̶y̶?̶ I wanted to tell you._  
_I̶ ̶L̶I̶K̶E̶D̶ ̶i̶t̶.̶ ̶I̶ ̶w̶a̶n̶t̶e̶d̶ ̶t̶o̶ ̶d̶o̶ ̶i̶t̶ ̶a̶g̶a̶i̶n̶.̶ ̶ Fuck this. Fuck it. Sod it for a pack of cards. I wanted you here with me in Spain. I was trying to tell you that you thick, fucking—you idiot. I thought we could get back—get back—to that. You weren't wrong, you know. I shouldn't have said those things about Cyn and the baby. But you hurt me when you_  
_When you_  
_I̶ ̶t̶h̶o̶u̶g̶h̶t̶ ̶w̶h̶e̶n̶ ̶y̶o̶u̶ ̶k̶i̶s̶s̶e̶d̶ ̶m̶e̶ ̶i̶t̶ ̶m̶e̶a̶n̶t̶ ̶ I thought you y̶o̶u̶ ̶f̶e̶l̶t̶_  
_You can't tell me you don't feel the same about—_

 _Me. You're just—When I think of Paris, I think of how right it was. Like when we're eyeball to eyeball hammering out a tune except more. Better. It doesn't end just because the song is over. We don't have to stop to explain things. We don't have to waste time choosing the right words._  
_I̶t̶ ̶c̶o̶u̶l̶d̶ ̶b̶e̶ ̶s̶o̶_

Perfect. As perfect as anything ever was. John paused, held his breath, he tapped the pen against his lips pensively. He was never going to send this letter. He was likely never going to express these sentiments out loud. How could he?

_If I could have things my way for once, I'd turn back the clocks. I'd do it the way I really wanted to. So would you. Because if you're lucky enough to find love, you'd be foolish to throw it away. Isn't that what you said? I don't think you were talking about her after all, were you?_

_Love,_  
_John_

He crumpled the letter into a tight ball and clenched it in his fist, the sharp corners of the paper digging into his palm.

“Are you writing a song?” Brian called out from the bed. 

“Yes,” John lied. “It's rubbish though.

“Show it to Paul. Maybe he can salvage it,” Brian said drowsily.

John shoved the crumpled letter into his jacket pocket and padded back over to Brian's bed. After their failed tryst it was probably better to find some tart to suck him off so he could sleep, return to own room, to his own bed with her. Instead he slid under the cool sheets beside Brian and enjoyed his tentative touch. He shut his eyes and thought of Paul. The greedy way he’d forced his tongue between John's lips. The way he’d rolled over and pinned John to the hotel bed. He wished to God he'd had the courage to do to Paul what Brian did to him now. John came in an awkward rush, bit back the name on his tongue. He didn't get up to mop away the mess he'd made, he liked the way the cooling wetness enforced the distance between them. Brian reached out to stroke John's shoulder, his touch gentle, comforting. He imagined it was Paul beside him in that tiny Paris bed. His hand flat against John's neck, the way you calm a high strung horse. 

“It's alright,” Paul had whispered as they drifted off to sleep, his lips against the fine hair at the nape of John's neck. “It's going to be alright.”


End file.
